


The Seven Years

by Nonesane



Category: Elfquest
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:31:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4692179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonesane/pseuds/Nonesane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A what-if story that stems from two questions:<br/>1) What if Bearclaw found out about Ekuar?<br/>and<br/>2) What if humans made it to Sorrow's End before the Wolfriders did?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seven Years

Bearclaw growls to himself as he bumps against the tunnel wall a third time. His legs wobble and the two trolls ahead of him briefly become four.  
  
“This's the wrong way,” he insists – for the third time.  
  
One of the trolls, too young for Bearclaw to have his name memorized yet, glances over his shoulder and merely shrugs. “Can't be. Orders,” he grunts, in the curt manner of one who has experience with explaining things while others are in their cups.  
  
“Oh,” is all Bearclaw can think to reply, before the two trolls make halt. As one they gesture at a side-cavern. A weak gust of air throws the smell of mold, maggots and rot towards them. Already unsteady and more than a little nauseous, the nose-burning scent causes Bearclaw's stomach to turn in most unpleasant ways.  
  
Falling to his knees, allowing the night's dreamberry wine to once more see the light of dim cave tunnels, Bearclaw doesn't notice the trolls closing in on him before it's too late. They laugh as he tumbles down the shallow pit. When his ears stop ringing and his heads pounds a little less he notes the sound of their running steps, heading back the way they'd come.  
  
“Ahnts take yer eyes!” Bearclaw grumbles under his breath, but with no true venom in his voice. A smirk tugs at his lips. “Sssstupid cubss,” he slurs to himself, scrambling to his feet.  
  
In search for a handhold his fingers hit against something thin and bony, not unlike the leg of a starved branch-horn, left to be food for worms.  
  
“Waste. Trolls always waste...things. 'Cept gold-” But a handhold is a handhold, so he grabs it. And it moves.  
  
Fighting down the returning nausea he looks up.  
  
Rage can be very, very sobering.  
  


* * *

  
  
Porle brings an arm up to shield his face from the harsh desert wind and huddles closer to his brother. Gusts of sand hit his cheeks, his hands, tears at any exposed flesh it can find. Porle bites back a sob.  
  
As quiet a sound as the sob is compared to the howling of the storm around them, his brother's arms snake around him the moment the noise leaves his mouth. His brother – strong, kind, clever Argas – holds out a corner of his tattered cloak and gently pulls Porle even closer.  
  
To their left, behind the curtain of swirling sand, Henur curses, loudly, several times. The sound fades away as they pass him, where he crawls and calls all damnation known to man down upon them.  
  
Porle can't help but steal a glance back at him and whimpers as Henur's scalded face roars at him with words that are swept away by the storm. It is a weak gesture, staring at a dying man, but Porle knows he is weak.  
  
Argas isn't. There is no one as strong in spirit as Argas, not in Porle's world. The knowledge of that comforts him. He knows his brother will protect him, from men as well as curses.  
  
As long as he stays with Argas, he will be safe.


End file.
